


Sapphire

by sanguisuga



Series: Aberrant Fragments [8]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hand Jobs, Holmes brother feels, Incest, M/M, Mycroft is fooled, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn, Smut, Some Fluff, but it's resolved, holmescest, rentboy au, sherlock in disguise, temporarily, with dirty sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5700634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguisuga/pseuds/sanguisuga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a high-class escort, and Mycroft is a high-class client...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sapphire

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much what it says on the tin!
> 
> Written for my gang of two, B & J - a whole story spawned from a three-way text message... I adore you guys, and this nonsense is all your fault. *mwah*!
> 
> (Would love to know what my other lovelies think!)

Sherlock swung his arms slightly as he strode down the pavement, putting on the airs of a man who had someplace to be but was not in a particular hurry to get there. He looked up into the sky briefly, squinting against the unusual glow in the sky, feeling the coloured contacts he was wearing shift slightly in his eyes. The air was brisk and the sun warm, a truly beautiful day, a day for lingering in the park perhaps, or for coffee outside at a café.

God, but it was hateful.

Sherlock fought the urge to burrow into the collar of his fashionable leather jacket, to stuff his hands in his pockets and stalk to his destination. He may find it deplorable, but François simply lived for this kind of day, and so he must make it look as though he did as well. He felt himself settling a bit more into his chosen mask as he walked, his spine loosening and gait shortening. The bright blond wig was a little stiff today, but he had put it on only fifteen minutes prior - it would be fine once it warmed up to his body heat. He tongued at the prosthetics tucked up into his cheeks, ensuring that a little vigorous movement wouldn’t jolt them loose. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure of what activities he may be engaged in this afternoon, but his marks very rarely refused the use of his mouth.

He touched his lips gently, tracing over the prominent Cupid’s bow, the plush fullness of them. One could say that these lips, this mouth, well, that it had simply been made for sucking cock, and Sherlock had never been one to neglect his natural attributes or talents. He smirked slightly as he pulled open the door to the main lobby of the Savoy, striding over to the concierge desk, the heels of his boots clicking saucily on the tile. The man standing attendance turned to him with an icy expression, his nose wrinkled and lips puckered as if he were smelling something rotten.

Sherlock grinned insolently and held out his hand as he lisped out, “Sapphire”. Something noxious flickered in the man’s gaze, but he clearly knew his role, as he slipped a keycard from a cubby in the desk and handed it over. Sherlock made sure to caress the outside of the man’s hand as he plucked it from his fingers, looking at the room number that was scrawled on the note tacked to it. “Ooh, a suite. How lovely!” He noted the man’s shudder of revulsion with a small amount of pride before winking at him and walking away.

He knew that no matter how high-end his arse may be, just the fact that he was selling it was reason enough for certain sub-set of people to loathe him. Unfortunately for those very same people, his was the oldest trade in the world, and as high-class as their patrons were, they expected to have their every whim catered to at absolutely any moment. And so there would always be an uneasy alliance between the prestigious hotel staff and the whores that they could call on at any time of the day or night in order to service their customers.

Sherlock ducked into the public restroom for a moment, quickly and efficiently assessing his disguise. He didn’t feel any sense of shame or disgust over what he did, but neither did that mean that he wanted to be recognised on the street and possibly propositioned without the transaction having gone through the proper channels. He had adopted the idea of using such a persona fairly early on in his rather dubious career, once he had established himself among the ranks at The Crown Jewels, the most elite and discreet escort service in the city.

This was simply a means to make money, to keep to the rather idle lifestyle that he had become accustomed to. Since he had cut himself off from his family’s money and influence, he’d had to find some manner of supporting himself, and he had found that selling his arse paid very well indeed. Once he had insinuated himself into the higher echelons of the organisation, it took only the smallest of efforts on his part to please his clients. Very rich men paid very handsomely for the privilege of bedding a lovely young thing like himself. Sherlock had very quickly realised this and had taken full advantage with absolutely no qualms.

His rates were outrageous, but they paid every time, and often came back for more. He knew that his shelf life as a hot young thing would be relatively short, and so he stashed away as much of the money as he could, investing it as he deemed necessary. He was hoping to be able to retire his body in the next few years and use his mind instead. Experiments, puzzles, _discovery_. These were the things that he was aching to do with his time, his energy.

Blinking at himself out of unfamiliar hazel eyes, Sherlock ran his hands through the slightly spiky wig, ensuring that it didn’t wiggle out of place. There was no trace of spirit gum around his hairline, and the bronzer that he had applied to his face and body had seemed to take very well. He stepped back and tugged at the leather jacket, pulling it closed over the sparkly Union Jack tee shirt, zipping it partway up. He turned and perused his backside in the mirror, stuffed into snug skinny jeans. All in all, he looked like a young man who was trying to look even younger, to look like a pretty little trick, hoping to find himself a sugar daddy for the night.

Perfect.

He put a little more wiggle in his bottom as he left the toilet, ignoring the odd outraged stare as he strode over to the elevator. All the way to the eighth floor - this individual must truly be swimming in it. Sherlock found himself pondering whether he had serviced this man before, although if he had, surely a name would have been dropped by his contact. He knew how to put on a convincing show, after all, and made sure that each of his marks believed that his was the call that he was truly waiting for.

Sherlock paused outside the door, shaking the nerves from his belly. He’d been doing this long enough to know how to distance himself while still being charming and engaging, but the uncertainty of what to expect always unsettled him. He found that it was easier if they treated him as little more than an ambulatory sex-toy, and not like an actual human being. He had a difficult enough time relating to normal people in his everyday life that being expected to act like a stranger’s lover, like someone’s legitimate companion, was enough to make the nerves under his skin twitch erratically.

The full ‘Boyfriend Experience’ was something that he had only had to live through once so far, and thank God for that. That entire weekend had been interminable, and he’d had to bite his tongue every time the old fool had called him ‘sweetie’, or ‘dearest’, or on one particularly memorable occasion, ‘sugarbum’. Sherlock was fairly certain that the look he had leveled at the man had probably carved another five years off his already considerably advanced age. But at least it had earned him nearly a year’s worth of the average person’s working wage in a mere seventy-two hours, and after all, they _had_ been in Tenerife...

Still, he had no idea what might be waiting for him on the other side of this door, something that thrilled him and frightened him in equal measure. And that, even more than the money, was the main reason that Sherlock did it. The rush of adrenaline that he enjoyed every time he put his body on the line was far sweeter than any orgasm that he might encounter, especially since he experienced the former far more often than the latter. Steeling his nerve and straightening his shoulders, Sherlock knocked twice before making use of the keycard that he had been given.

He smiled faintly to see that it was one of the Art Deco suites, the black and white checkered tile a welcoming sight. The other suites were far too fussy for his taste, too white and clean. They always reminded him of the prim and rather sterile place that he’d had to call home for the first fifteen years of his life. Sherlock stepped into the foyer and cleared his throat, making sure to put a little impertinence into his voice along with the French lilt. “‘Ullo?”

“In here.”

The voice came from the left, from the sitting room, and Sherlock stepped through cautiously, leaning up against the doorway as a tall, lean man in a suit with his back to the room poured out a drink. Without turning, he held up a tumbler with a generous measure of warm amber liquid swirling about inside in a clear offer.

“No, zank you. Ah prefer not to imbibe…”

“Wise precaution.” Sherlock’s heart began to hammer in his chest as the man straightened, as he caught the dark auburn of his hair, the particular tilt of his head. His knees wobbled dangerously as the man started to turn, his slouched posture against the doorframe now one of true support rather than a mere insolent pose.

He cursed mentally as the figure completed his turn, his cool grey eyes assessing him sharply. ‘Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_.’ Of all the times and all the places, of all the people he did not expect and especially did not want to see under _any_ circumstances, never mind in a compromising situation such as this...

Sherlock’s heart seemed to still in his chest as his estranged brother took a sip of his scotch and tilted his head curiously. “I say, are you quite all right? Please, have a seat.” Mycroft gestured to the sleek sofa off to the right, and Sherlock willed his legs to stop shaking as he strode over and perched on the edge. Once again, keen eyes swept over his form, but rather than sharpening and dissecting, they warmed slightly. “And what should I call you, then? The agency didn’t give me a name...”

Sherlock bit his lip as he considered briefly. He could end this now, without having to reveal himself at all. He could simply walk away, tell the man standing a respectable distance away that he must decline and that they could send another boy if he wished. But he found himself assessing in return, taking in the way his older brother’s mouth pinched in at the corners, at the manner in which he was holding the cut-crystal tumbler, his elegant fingers tight with tension. His exquisitely cut suit was hanging on his frame somewhat listlessly, indicating that he had lost a significant amount of weight in a relatively short amount of time. Mycroft was clearly stressed, and very nearly at his breaking point, which was obviously the reason this clandestine little meeting was even occurring in the first place.

Sherlock thought also of the numerous possibilities that this was suddenly opening for him, the opportunity to have something to hold over his brother’s head for years to come. To mock, to revile, to taunt and plague him with in order to punish him for his callous abandonment all those years ago. Sherlock blinked as his brother cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, looking at him, really looking, and suddenly seeing the man that he had loved for his entire life.

Sherlock had been but a teenager when he had left, awkward and scrawny and completely out of his depth, but having lived on his own and having been alone with his thoughts and memories for so many years had left him with the sure knowledge that his dearest brother was the only one who could ever truly understand him, who could give him the love that he really craved.

But of course Sherlock had never sought Mycroft out while living in London, even knowing these things for certain. Many horrible words had been spoken between them, so many barbs and arrows that they had both been left with invisible but nonetheless mortal wounds. He highly doubted that Mycroft would have been willing to listen to his apologies, never mind actually accepting them. And even if his elder brother were to allow him back into his life, Sherlock knew that they would never have the kind of relationship that he truly craved. They were brothers, after all.

This might well be the tipping point, could possibly be the one thing that would sound the final death knell between them, but Sherlock knew that he simply could not walk away, not now. Looking at his beloved older brother, seeing his deeply-held pain and his worry, he felt nothing but an overwhelming need to try and make it better. And there could still be some element of a game, couldn’t there? One last round of deductions. How long might it take the mighty Mycroft Holmes to see beyond his paltry disguise, to realise that he was buggering his baby brother?

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow and tilted his head coyly. “François, monsieur.”

“French.” Sherlock froze as those eyes once again narrowed, and he knew that he was silently being called out for his overt lie. First point to his brother, then. He braced himself for a flurry of questions about the region, the reason for his coming to England, all manner of enquiries that Sherlock had ready answers for, but Mycroft did not call him out verbally, simply nodding slightly in acknowledgment.

He was ceding the point - Mycroft knew that he was lying, but he was choosing not to interrogate him. It left Sherlock feeling a bit lopsided, as he had never known his brother not to press for further information, especially when he _knew_ someone was presenting a false front. But then, Mycroft also understood the nature of such delicate work, and that sometimes, one’s reasons had to remain their own.

So his brother just nodded and set his drink aside before reaching into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Sherlock felt his nerves settle as he caught sight of the envelope, fat with notes. This was very familiar territory after all, wasn’t it? He just had to think of his brother as nothing but a client, just another hungry mark looking for a tasty piece of arse to feast upon.

Sherlock stood on steady legs and minced over to his brother, neatly plucking the envelope from his fingers and briefly rifling through the contents. He unzipped his jacket and tucked the money away securely before shrugging the leather off his shoulders and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

Mycroft let out a little snort as he caught sight of the sparkly Union Jack, a sound of unexpected delight. Sherlock pursed his lips and gave a little pirouette, turning slowly on the spot. “You like?”

“Very much so.” Sherlock noted Mycroft’s fingers twitching against his pants-leg, observing that he was holding back until the formalities had been concluded. “Four hours, correct?”

“Oui, monsieur. Zough eef you like, per’aps more, no?”

Mycroft cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly. “Five for the whole night, was it?”

“Oui.” Sherlock nodded, putting on his best coy expression. “Eef you like.”

“I’m sure I’ll enjoy myself tremendously.” Mycroft finally reached out, running one finger along Sherlock’s jawline.

He was a little surprised to feel himself respond to just that simple touch, a swift welter of heat running up the back of his neck. Sherlock gasped as he shivered, taking a step closer and running both hands up the lapels of Mycroft’s jacket. He looked up into eyes that had gone dark with desire, and he suddenly felt his head swimming with something more than just the usual jolt of sexual power.

He had never felt any genuine attraction towards any of his marks, and didn’t seek out that kind of connection outside of his work, so to feel it in this moment... Although, should it have come as such a surprise now that he had finally realised his true feelings? The air between their bodies was suddenly too thick for him to take into his lungs properly, the subtle fragrance of Mycroft’s cologne overriding the scent of the makeup that Sherlock had applied earlier. He breathed it in as deeply as he could, marking it in his memory for storage later.

He tried to regulate his heartbeat and swallow down a tongue that suddenly felt too big for his mouth, barely remembering to employ his somewhat ridiculous accent. “Your name, monsieur? ‘Ow would you like for me to call you, zen?” He slid his hands under the jacket and over Mycroft’s shoulders, deftly slipping it off and setting it aside carefully. His brother’s eyes were fixed on the hollow of his neck as he swallowed nervously and started to work the buttons on his waistcoat loose. “Per’aps you are ze type zat likes ‘Papa’, no?”

“Quite definitely not.”

There was a low growl in Mycroft’s voice, something deeply primal but tightly controlled. Sherlock shuddered as his spine twisted, smiling as his brother held out an arm and watched intently as he deftly slipped the cufflink loose. “Ah, no... Eef you were like zat, Ah would zink ‘Père’. Not so - how you say - casual?”

“You would be quite correct...” Mycroft sniffed disdainfully. “If I were like that. Which I am not.”

Sherlock smirked as he handed over the second cufflink, hardly paying attention as he fumbled at the buttons of his brother’s shirt. So many damn buttons... “Monsieur, zen? Per’aps Maître?”

Although Mycroft’s eyes went a bit darker at the sound of the word ‘Master’ falling from Sherlock’s lips, he shook his head sharply. “Please, call me Michael.”

“Ah, oui! Michel, eet ees a good name, no? Très good.” By this time, Sherlock had managed to get both waistcoat and shirt undone, but was thwarted by yet another layer, a pristine white vest. Mycroft’s lips twisted with amusement as Sherlock sighed heavily, plucking it from the waistband of his trousers with a little roll of his eyes. “What do you like, zen? ‘Ow do Ah pleese Michel?”

Mycroft allowed him to push his outer layers off, letting out a breathy sigh as Sherlock ran both hands up the inside of his vest, tangling his fingers in the abundant hair. “I think I should first ask what it is that you don’t like, mon cher. Is there anything that is not allowed?” Sherlock tilted his head as Mycroft cupped his face, running his thumb along his bottom lip. “For instance... François, may I kiss you?”

Sherlock blinked slowly as he nodded, taking in a shallow breath as Mycroft moved in. “Oh. Oui, Michel, s'il vous plaît...” His eyes fluttered as they closed, as his elder brother’s lips touched his and then - oh. While Sherlock was fairly certain that this was the first time that Mycroft had ordered up a high-class tart for delivery, it was obvious that he was no shrinking violet when it came to the act of physical pleasure. His lips were firm but supple, and he moved confidently, still cradling his face gently with one hand while the other boldly went straight for Sherlock’s arse, squeezing tight and pulling their groins flush.

Sherlock nearly gave up the game the moment his brother deftly licked his way into his mouth, his tongue flickering against his with the lightest of teases, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip with just the slightest of pressure. Sherlock whimpered quietly as he tilted his hips, grinding against Mycroft’s hardness, feeling the softness and gentleness of him all at the same time in the smooth skin of his back, in the light caresses on his face. He stiffened in his trousers almost immediately, a rather painful sensation due to the ridiculous costume that he was wearing.

He was nearly struck dumb by the look in his brother’s eyes as he pulled away, something eager and needy, yes, but also vulnerable and uncertain. Sherlock was used to feeling needed, well familiar with simply being used for another’s release and then unworthy of further consideration. He wasn’t used to the look in Mycroft’s eyes, an expression of longing and desire, of the need to feel desired in return. He definitely wasn’t used to the notion of feeling genuine desire for one of his clients, or indeed for any person. Rather than having to hold back on his feelings of discomfort and even revulsion, he let himself feel the heady swirl of lust and adoration, finding it rather intoxicating.

Sherlock let all of this shine through in his eyes, in the quivering of his mouth and eyelashes, and Mycroft responded beautifully, a truly joyous smile spreading over his face. His grey eyes warmed and crinkled around the edges, and Sherlock took in a breath as he saw the person that his brother had been before he had gone away, before he had put on his own protective mask in order to face the world.

Mycroft rolled their hips together, chuckling breathily as Sherlock gave out a heady moan. “Oh, but you are a lovely creature, François.” The hand that had been holding his face stealthily crawled around and down, until he was cupping both cheeks in a firm grip. Mycroft slipped a knee between Sherlock’s thighs, rubbing up against his erection with a certain level of malicious glee. “And this is very promising...” He squeezed hard and rocked forward, and Sherlock let out a harsh gasp as his neck twisted involuntarily. “Both front and back.” Sherlock’s head reeled as he was suddenly pushed away from the enticing warmth of his brother’s body. “Show me, François. Show me that delicious body of yours.”

“Oui, Michel.”

Sherlock stepped back, quickly ducking down to unzip his boots before casually kicking them off. He grinned as Mycroft licked his lips, watching his fingers as they ran down his torso and along the waistband of his jeans in a slow tease. His brother smirked in return, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers and leaning back against the wall. No matter how eager he might be, Mycroft had always been nothing less than patience personified, and Sherlock himself was feeling an inexplicable excitement growing within him, so he didn’t tease for long.

The rasping sound of his zip went largely unnoticed as his brother hummed low, his eyes ranging over Sherlock’s body greedily. He tutted quietly as he was presented with Sherlock’s back, as he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and wriggled them down over his hips. Sherlock ignored the slightly uncharitable snort of laughter from behind him as he was stalled a bit, grunting faintly as he worked the stiff denim down. Damn - had they somehow shrunk in the last half-hour?

He cast a glance over his shoulder that perhaps had a bit more vitriol in it than Mycroft deserved, and he realised somewhat belatedly that it might be a clue, as his brother narrowed his eyes and tilted his head in a calculating manner. He swiftly tried to put a little more come-hither in his expression as he wiggled his bottom, finally working the jeans about half-way down his arse. Mycroft’s eyes zeroed in on the sight, and Sherlock breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he rotated his hips, sliding the denim down oh-so-slowly. He paused when they were right below his crack, reaching behind to lift up his tee to reveal a bit more of the plush globes of his bum.

“You’re quite the coquette, aren’t you, mon cher?”

Sherlock arched his back as he ran both hands down, squeezing and pulling his cheeks apart ever-so-slightly. “Oui, Michel. Ah like ze way you look at me...” He turned slightly, providing a lovely profile, his cock stiff under the flimsy cover of the sparkly tee shirt. “Do you not want to touch me?”

“Oh, that I will.” The low growl was present in Mycroft’s voice again, a sound that Sherlock found he was quite helpless against, as he felt his arms go completely limp. Their eyes locked from across the room and his brother smirked, obviously feeling his own rush of power. He knew intuitively that he was having an effect on Sherlock, that although he may be putting on a persona, he certainly was not putting on an act. He knew that the desire that they were both feeling was genuine, and it had made him less tentative, more sure in his ownership of the room.

Sherlock swiftly shoved his jeans down his thighs and then further down, his feet getting tangled briefly in the wad of stiff denim. This time the laughter that echoed through the room was doubled, as Mycroft chuckled at his brother’s frantic hopping attempts to keep himself upright, and Sherlock himself giggled madly and nearly blinked the coloured contacts right out of his eyes.

Once the reticent article of clothing had been discarded and kicked viciously to the side, Sherlock tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling briefly, attempting to maintain some sense of dignity, trying to find François’ voice in his head once again. Mycroft’s eyes were sparkling delightfully but his expression carefully neutral as Sherlock faced him and began to lift the tee.

“Ah. Leave that on for the moment.” Mycroft looked him up and down, his cheeks gone a subtle shade of pink. “I find it rather amusing.” He dropped his voice. “And _terribly_ alluring.”

Sherlock swallowed as his brother crooked a finger and beckoned him forward, his mouth suddenly gone quite dry. He went where he was told to go, however, mincing across the room until Mycroft’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling him in tight and positively attacking his mouth. Sherlock whimpered as his knees buckled, a deep thrill running up his spine at the thought that he had caused his brother to lose hold of that tight control of his.

Once again the firm thigh was between his legs, both hands grasping and kneading at his arse-cheeks as Mycroft growled, nipping at his lips as much as kissing him. “Michel... Michel, s'il vous plaît... P-please...” Sherlock’s voice cracked on the last word, and he tried to make it seem as though he was just unfamiliar with the term. A low ball of dread formed in his chest as Mycroft pulled away slightly, his eyes once again taking on that searching quality.

He smiled a little sadly as Sherlock took advantage of the space between them, quickly going for his belt and zip, avoiding his gaze. Mycroft gently lifted his face even as his body shivered with delight, tracing over his lips and along his jaw, running the edge of his thumbnail in between Sherlock’s eyebrows and down his nose, giving it a little tweak. “You remind me of someone, François... Someone that I knew a very long time ago.”

Sherlock blinked as he froze, his heart plummeting as his brother’s gaze turned inward. “You mees heem beaucoup, no?”

“Oh, very very much.” Mycroft’s fingers traced down the long line of his neck as Sherlock stretched, his back arching slightly.

“Michel, you are très powerful, no? Could you not find heem?”

Mycroft hummed quietly. “I could, yes.”

“Why ‘ave you not?”

His brother looked at him as though confused. “Because he asked me not to.” His eyes cleared as they ranged over Sherlock’s face, his fingers returning time and time again to his lips. Mycroft moaned quietly as Sherlock darted out his tongue, flickering it over the tips of those exploratory digits. “There is nothing that concerns me more in this world than the state of his welfare, and I would give anything to know that he is safe and healthy. But I gave my word to leave him be, and so I have.”

“‘Ow très galant you are, Michel. Per’aps a leetle too much so, no?” Sherlock put as much impatience and greed into his voice as he could muster, tugging imperiously at the clothing that was still very much in his way. Mycroft broke out into low laughter, but bit his lip uncertainly. “Do not let yourself worry, Ah am sure zat Ah ‘ave seen plus grave.”

Mycroft snorted and rolled his eyes, but also shook his head with a degree of fondness that made Sherlock’s heart swell with pride. Even if his brother wasn’t able to suss out the game, and of course he would eventually, he would be able to leave this room with the sense of a job well done, knowing that he had helped to alleviate some of his stress and anxiety. He briefly mourned the loss of Mycroft’s fingers kneading at his arse as he pushed him away slightly, reaching down to pull his vest up over his head.

Sherlock crouched down to eagerly tug at his trousers and pants, running his hands over his lean thighs, tickling at the abundance of hair. Mycroft jolted slightly as he looked down, but didn’t object as Sherlock went to his knees in front of him. He leant back against the wall and tilted his hips as he spread his legs, or at least as much as the bundle of fabric around his ankles would allow him to.

Sherlock kept their eyes locked as he ran his hands up, up, over the furriness of his thighs, to the softness of his belly, going up on his knees to fiddle idly with Mycroft’s pale pink nipples. So much wonderful ginger hair - he had never imagined that his brother could be quite this delightfully furry. “Si beau...”

Mycroft’s eyes widened even as his nipples puckered into hard little nubs, as his prick jumped slightly against Sherlock’s sternum. “No.”

“Do you theenk Ah am ze teller of lies, Michel?”

Sherlock tilted his head coyly and continued to pet his brother’s lovely, fuzzy body in long, sensuous strokes as Mycroft’s gaze sharpened. “No. No, I don’t think you are lying...” He paused significantly. “François.” Sherlock pursed his lips in an apologetic moue. Mycroft knew that he was not lying about being attracted to him, but he was still in disguise, and his brother was making sure that Sherlock knew that he was in the wise on that score at least.

Sherlock smiled wickedly as he pressed his nose into the soft flesh of his brother’s belly, nibbling delicately around his navel. Mycroft tutted and pushed his hips up, grinding his hard cock into Sherlock’s chest. He sat back slightly, keeping one hand wrapped around a thigh as he traced a finger down his sternum, wiping up the traces of pre-come that had been smeared on his skin.

He stuck his finger in his mouth and pouted around it while looking up from under his lashes. The expression of naked hunger that was radiating from his brother’s eyes made his whole body jerk hard, and he felt his neglected cock dribble out a hefty amount of its own clear fluid. Sherlock leant further back, bracing one arm behind himself as he lifted the tee shirt with the other, exposing his florid prick to the man standing above him.

Mycroft lifted a hand to his mouth, wiping an errant dribble of saliva from one corner of his lips. Sherlock sighed as he delicately ran two fingers up and down the underside of his cock, smearing the pre-come down his hairless bollocks. He played with himself idly as Mycroft watched, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“You’re bare.”

“Mm.” Sherlock nodded as he shrugged vaguely. “Eet ees easier zat way... Ah go to ze salon, and _zzzztt_ , eet ees all gone.” He made an exaggerated gesture, tugging his scrotum taut with one hand and miming a waxing strip with the other. He giggled sharply as Mycroft winced, his hands coming up to subconsciously cover himself. With a sly tilt of his head, Sherlock asked, “You would like to touch, no? Eet ees ver’ soft...”

“Later.”

“Ah. Michel would like for me to touch heem, zen?” Sherlock licked his lips suggestively. “To suck heem?”

“Christ, but that mouth...” Mycroft gestured at his torso. “Take that off and come here.” Sherlock swiftly obeyed, shedding his shirt and shivering faintly as his brother’s low noise of appreciation skittered down his spine. “Gorgeous.” Mycroft’s fingertips danced delicately along Sherlock’s clavicle as he took one shoulder in a gentle grip. “Loveliest boy in all creation, and you’re all mine." He paused briefly, a flicker of sadness passing over his features. "For the moment.”

Sherlock's heart twinged in his chest. “Oui, Michel. Yours. Tell me. Make me take you as you want.”

“Touch.”

Sherlock immediately ran his right hand up his leg, over his thigh, reaching up to stroke the backside of one finger down the dangling bollocks before confidently wrapping his hand around the base of his brother’s cock. He gave him one long, sure stroke, cataloguing the silkiness of his flesh, the firm if spongy core, the elasticity of his foreskin as it pulled up over the head and retracted smoothly. Oh, but this was a prime example of manhood, rosy and fat and simply dripping with promise. He licked his lips in anticipation.

Mycroft let out a shuddering sigh, his eyes ranging over Sherlock’s face, gauging his reactions and clearly liking what he was seeing. “Smell.”

Sherlock let out a surprised but happy noise, not hesitating to lean in, to nose at the crease of thigh and groin, to butt his head against Mycroft’s bollocks, finally burying his nose in the thick thatch of ginger curls, huffing out a hot, pleasured breath at the tang of his brother’s sweat, the sharp spicy warmth of his natural musk. He took the smell of his brother’s sex deep into his lungs, rubbing his cheek into him, marking himself with Mycroft’s scent.

The low cry and harsh shudder from above did not go unnoticed, and Sherlock looked up into a face that was nearly wrecked, but still curious. “You’re very thorough, François.” Mycroft once again traced the planes of his face, his brow wrinkling in concentration. “It’s so _odd..._ ”

Sherlock panicked slightly, his heart skipping in his chest. “Michel... Michel, s'il... S’il vous plaît...”

“Yes, darling boy. Eager little tart that you are - go on, then. Taste me.”

Sherlock shuffled forward just a little more, going up on his knees to lick at the stiff member that was straining against his brother’s lower belly. He dabbled the tip of his tongue at the slit, lapping up the pre-come as delicately as a kitten with cream. Mycroft made a strangled noise of approval as he looked down at him, the hand on his shoulder flexing convulsively. Sherlock deftly closed his lips around the very tip of the darkly flushed head with just the lightest of pressure, sucking oh-so-gently.

He ran his hands up the delightfully furry thighs before closing his long fingers around Mycroft’s hips, not to hold him down, but to anchor his own hands in place. Sherlock looked up and winked as a ripple of delight made his brother’s belly shake, as understanding dawned. It would be this - his mouth on Mycroft’s cock - and nothing more. No neat tricks with fingers or palms, no fiddling about with extraneous body parts, no stroking to bring him to his finish. Mycroft’s long, elegant fingers wrapped around Sherlock’s wrists as he nodded down at him, and he began to move.

He slid his mouth down the entirety of Mycroft’s cock, taking his time but not teasing, not anymore. Sherlock waited until his nose bumped into his brother’s pubic bone, and he swallowed around him carefully before pulling off again. He took a moment to breathe as Mycroft looked down at him in a daze.

“No gag reflex. Of course.”

Sherlock smirked and shrugged airily. “Ees - how you say - practice, it makes ze perfect, no?”

Mycroft tilted his hips forward. “Practice some more, François.”

Sherlock giggled, but did as he was told, stretching up to once again capture the silky, hot flesh in between his lips, settling down on his knees, rather determined to give his brother the best blowjob of his life. He flickered his tongue at the tip, nibbled delicately at the fraenulum, bobbed up and down at varying distances, stopping halfway along to hum low in his chest and somehow succeeding valiantly at containing his triumphant smirk at every sound coming from up above.

Throughout each of Sherlock’s little tricks, Mycroft kept himself perfectly still, his shoulders flush to the wall and his face turned up to the ceiling. He kept his eyes closed and let out soft sounds of pleasure and delight with each new variation, but kept his control firmly locked in place. Well, now - that simply would not do, would it? Sherlock tried the humming trick again, this time with just his lips locked around the head, sucking lightly with his tongue. This received a low moan, his brother’s lips parting and his jaw going slack.

Sliding about a quarter of the way down, another hum, a gentle smack of his lips around the rather hefty girth. This earned him a twitch of the fingers wrapped around his wrists, and grinning internally, he once again took in the entire length and with a solid breath in from his nose, produced a deep, rolling vibration from his chest. Mycroft cursed and his hips jerked forward hard.

Sherlock pulled off and licked his lips delicately, blinking his hazel eyes lazily as his brother turned a calculating look down on him. He pursed his lips and then parted them as he watched Mycroft come to a decision, rolling his head on his neck in preparation. There was a brief pause as Mycroft balanced somewhat precariously to toe off his shoes and step out of his trousers. Then his brother spread his legs slightly and pushed away from the wall, releasing one delicate wrist and sliding his hand up to Sherlock’s shoulder, gripping it firmly. Mycroft surged forward smoothly, showing his teeth as there was a greedy noise from down below, as Sherlock sucked him in eagerly.

“Oh, but you are a nasty little thing, aren’t you, mon cher? Taking my cock like you were simply born to it...”

But of course Sherlock could not answer, as his brother was finally putting him to the entire reason that he was even here, using him for his own pleasure, rocking in and out of his mouth in long, steady strokes, pushing deep into his throat. He began to feel slightly discomfited as Mycroft’s head tilted, the eyes that had gone hazy with lust suddenly sharpening once more.

“Remarkable... You... You’re a miracle, oh, such a wonder...”

Mycroft’s voice petered out into a low groan as Sherlock hummed again, but his brother would not be dissuaded from his impromptu examination, even as he began to move a bit faster, withdrawing nearly all the way with each thrust. Sherlock closed down around the head of Mycroft’s cock and refused to let go, only loosening the ring of his lips as he began to push forward again. He squirmed as elegant fingers began to trace around his eyes, trailing across his temples, down his cheekbones, probing delicately but insistently at the prosthetics tucked up high.

Sherlock felt a spike of sheer panic low in his belly as he realised that his brother was mapping out the structure of his skull, clearly peeling away at his disguise from within. He hummed again, almost desperately, his fingers clutching hard at Mycroft’s hips as his rhythm began to break apart.

“No... Not like this, it can’t be.” Mycroft’s voice was breathless, heavy with the anticipation of his impending orgasm, but he was obviously trying to shake it off even as his hips kept pumping into him. Sherlock’s eyes widened as his brother’s hand came down to take gentle hold of his throat, as his fingers tightened down at the nape of his neck, as his thumb swiped over his skin.

It skipped over the prominent moles that he’d had since a child, an unfortunate liability that Sherlock had covered with makeup, but had not bothered to smooth out with putty. Why should he, after all? His disguise had never needed to be that thorough before... Knowing that the game was all but lost, still intending to give his brother something that he would truly never forget, Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and sucked furiously as Mycroft’s knees trembled, and he felt his fingers digging harder into his neck as the flesh on his tongue jumped and was shoved deep into his throat.

He moaned from somewhere in his belly as Mycroft cried out upon his release. “Sherlock!” He eagerly swallowed everything that he was gifted, continuing to suck and lick and lap as Mycroft slowly withdrew, his body twitching awkwardly with aftershocks.

Sherlock tilted his head back and winked carelessly as he struggled to suck in breath. “Took you long enough, cher frère.”

He watched with some amount of trepidation as Mycroft slumped back up against the wall, his arms hanging listlessly at his side as his knees shook visibly. As his brother stared, mouth slack and eyes wide, Sherlock reached out to the side for his leather jacket, pulling it close. Rummaging about in one of the pockets, he drew out a couple of small cases. The first thing to come off were the false eyelashes, dyed blond, of course. Then he carefully opened the contact lens case, each of the tiny receptacles filled with saline, and dabbed the hazel out of his eyes and into the liquid.

The second case was for the padding in his cheeks, and Sherlock took a moment to rub at his face after those came out, massaging out the faint tingling left behind. Without looking at the still figure standing before him, he ducked his head and started to work the wig loose, finally pulling it free and slipping the stocking cap off with it. He kept his head down as he attempted to fluff up his dark curls, afraid to meet his brother’s eyes.

He continued to kneel before his elder brother, subconsciously curling his body inward, his shoulders shaking with uncertainty as he braced himself for the influx of shame and guilt, for the disgust and anger. Sherlock cringed away slightly as he sensed movement, but rather than lifting a hand in righteous rage, his brother slid smoothly to his knees, straddling his thighs, pressing close, oh - so close. A pair of cool hands plunged into his hair and pulled back as Mycroft lifted his face, his grey eyes brimming with unfathomable emotion. They were full of wonder and delight and perhaps there was a touch of anger far down in the depths, but it was tempered with such an overwhelming love that Sherlock found his breath carried quite away.

“There you are, brother mine...” Mycroft surged forward, enveloping Sherlock with a deep kiss full of such relief and ardent passion that he felt his half-hard cock twitch back to life against Mycroft’s softening flesh. “Sherlock...” Mycroft cradled his face gently, almost as if in fear that he might break. His eyes ranged over his face as he ran his thumbs up his cheekbones, over his brow, over his lips. “Oh, but I thought I had lost you, little one.”

Sherlock fought against the trembling in his chin, blinking back the tears that were threatening to spill over. “Hello, Mycroft.”

His brother sputtered out a quiet laugh as he put their foreheads together. “Hello.” He pulled away slightly and rubbed the tip of his nose against Sherlock’s before knocking heads gently. “Hello, my daft baby brother. You glorious, mad thing.” Sherlock couldn’t prevent a small sob from breaking forth as Mycroft kissed him gently, persistently. “Do you know how much I’ve missed you, brother mine?”

Sherlock raised one hand to wipe at his nose, but he couldn’t manage to slip it in between them, as Mycroft was pressed so close. “I’m beginning to glean some understanding, yes.” He let that hand come to rest on his brother’s thigh instead, absentmindedly but cautiously petting at his skin.

Mycroft hummed low, his fingers gently massaging at Sherlock’s scalp. He took in breath on a small gasp as his cock twitched again, his skin quivering at every light touch. His brother chuckled warmly and shifted, running his nose over Sherlock’s cheek, huffing warm breath down his neck. “You always did like that, didn’t you? Just about the only thing that could calm you when you were in the midst of one of your little tantrums.” Sherlock moaned as Mycroft’s fingers tightened down and pulled back. “Yes. My fingers in your hair, and everything would just...stop.”

“My...” Sherlock swallowed thickly as his brother moved down, as there was the lightest of kisses under his chin. _“Mycroft.”_

“I’m here, little one. I’m here for you.” Sherlock blinked up at the ceiling as his brother hummed, something in his reverent regard focusing sharply. One of Mycroft’s hands disentangled itself from his curls and traced delicately along his shoulder and followed the path of his clavicle. An elegant finger tapped idly at the hollow there before dipping down his sternum, the nail scraping at his flesh. Sherlock sucked in another breath and froze solid as there was the faintest of tickles around his navel and another quiet hum, inquisitive rather than soothing. “And what do we have here?”

Mycroft’s voice was low and sensuous, something warm and lazy with desire. Sherlock jolted as he felt the barest of touches at the head of his prick, abruptly re-starting his heart and making him throb with unbearable need. “Mycroft... Brother...you - you don’t have to.”

“Oh, I am well aware.” Sherlock’s head was tilted forward as Mycroft slid his other hand down and cupped the back of his neck. He blinked dazedly as his elder brother smiled wickedly. “Trust me, I do not feel any sense of obligation for the service that you have so kindly performed for me, little one.” Sherlock’s chest hitched with aborted breath as he felt one finger stroke him softly - far too softly. “I’m doing this because I _want_ to.” The raw note of lust in his brother’s voice almost made Sherlock swoon, his head swimming as a swift welter of heat flooded his centre. Mycroft’s hand stilled momentarily as he waited for him to recover, and once he was able to focus, Sherlock noted his serious expression with a little frown. “Unless... Unless you’d prefer for me to stop?”

Sherlock shook his head frantically. “God, no! Don’t stop - don’t ever, _ever_...”

His voice was cut off as Mycroft pressed his lips to his mouth almost desperately, swallowing up his protestations with a groan of relief. Sherlock shuddered and let out a muffled cry as he felt that cool, strong hand finally wrap around him, his brother’s elegant fingers efficient and confident in their task.

His head swam again with so much emotion that he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, but then Mycroft slowed both his lips and his hand, bringing him down into a warm, easy rhythm. He felt the deepest of his internal wounds begin to knit itself back together under his brother’s loving attentions, the dark, ugly gash being replaced with something bright and hopeful.

Sherlock moaned and shivered under Mycroft’s tender torture, his strokes long and measured, but not taunting. He tried to roll his hips, to strive for more, but Mycroft simply clamped his knees tighter around his thighs, admonishing him for moving without saying a word. Sherlock whimpered but obeyed, holding onto his brother’s body as he fought to keep himself still, relinquishing his agency, silently delivering the whole of himself into Mycroft’s care. After all, his big brother had always taken such good care of him...

Mycroft must have felt something of his surrender in the curve of his spine, in the way his shoulders slumped forward slightly, as Sherlock’s breath took on the steady tempo of his hand. He crooned softly and kissed him again and again, his cheek and neck, his shoulder and temple. Soft butterfly kisses that sparked gentle lightning all along Sherlock’s spine, making his nerves crackle and his toes curl. He whimpered quietly as Mycroft’s touch became more insistent, his fingers tightening around him almost imperceptibly.

Then fingers in his hair, drawing his face down so that they were propped up together by their foreheads. “Open your eyes, little one, and see.” Sherlock drew in a shaky breath and looked down at himself, watching with dazed eyes as his brother’s hand worked him over expertly, the crown of his cock popping out from curled forefinger and thumb. Mycroft twisted his wrist and gave him one long slow pull from base to tip before speeding up again. “Yes, see how lovely and beautiful you are. How absolutely perfectly you fit in my hand. I know just how to touch you, Sherlock, know just what you need. I always know what you need, brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice dropped into a lazy purr. “And what you need now is to see my fingers dripping with your semen, isn’t that right?”

Sherlock made a low noise in the back of his throat, strangling his moan. “Brother, please...”

Mycroft chuckled quietly. “Not like that, mon cher.”

“Grand frère... S'il...s'il te plaît...”

“Oh, there we are... Yes, you need to come, don’t you?” Sherlock held his breath in anticipation, feeling the distinct tingling sensation of his bollocks pulling up in preparation for release. Every tendon in his body was held tense, waiting, waiting. Mycroft sighed, his warm breath washing over his face. “Mon petit frère... Come now. Come for me, mon amour.”

The air left Sherlock’s lungs with a soft whoosh as his body shuddered convulsively, his voice cracking on a low grunting cry with each pulse of his cock, striping Mycroft’s hand and his own belly with hot come. His fingers scrabbled at his brother’s thighs with each spasm, his forehead slick with sweat as it contorted against Mycroft’s temple. He let his head fall, burying his face in his brother’s neck and letting out a single sob as his body began to quiet itself.

Mycroft held him, carried him through the most intense orgasm of his life with calm, unshakeable confidence, petting his hair softly and making soothing noises as he carefully unwrapped his fingers from his sticky cock. Sherlock slung his arms around his brother’s waist as his body relaxed, barely even conscious of the ache in his knees and back. He let Mycroft rock him gently, listening to the mesmerising sound of his heartbeat and his low voice murmuring ‘my heart’ and ‘my love’ in a musical tongue.

They shifted almost as one, simply laying down right there on the floor, moulding their bodies together, thigh and belly, chest to chest. Sherlock looked into Mycroft’s eyes and saw some of his own wonder, his own delight and relief reflected there. His brother’s face was wet with tears, and he realised somewhat belatedly that his was as well, as they each reached out to trace the tracks of the tears of the other simultaneously.

They smiled in unison, and laughed at nearly the same moment before Mycroft sobered, his head tilting as he regarded him with devotion and longing. “Stay. Stay with me, brother mine.” His smile grew as Sherlock hesitated. “S'il te plaît.”

Sherlock nodded as he buried his face in his brother’s neck. Yes. Yes, of course he would stay. And whether it was just for the night, or for the rest of their lives, he knew that Mycroft would see him safe and warm and loved beyond all reason. He let his eyes close and gave himself over, knowing that his big brother would stand between him and the cold world.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or brit-picked. Characters not mine, but the situation definitely is!
> 
> If you'd like to get notifications from tumblr, I'm at 'bitemebat.tumblr.com'. Come follow me, and you'll get pretty boys and soft kitties on your dash!


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